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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632350">All That Glitters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedre4mwalker/pseuds/thedre4mwalker'>thedre4mwalker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist Jack Kelly, Blood and Gore, Canonical Child Abuse, Crime Boss Racetrack Higgins, Crime Boss Spot Conlon, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Detective David Jacobs, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Investigator David Jacobs, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Performer Jack Kelly, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prohibition, Prohibition AU, Reporter David Jacobs, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, So many tags, Sort Of, Tags Contain Spoilers, Threats of Violence, Trans Male Character, Trans Racetrack Higgins, javid - Freeform, mafia, speakeasy, speakeasy au, sprace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedre4mwalker/pseuds/thedre4mwalker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Speakeasies and roadsters, prohibition and organized crime. New York is no stranger to the furthest reaches of man’s desire. Some want fame and will do anything they can to get it, others want money. Some just want to solve the damn problem. It isn’t all so linear, and it’s hardly a piece of cake. There’s peril, romance, and a very fine line between the two.<br/></p><p>A.K.A - A 1920s Newsies AU; Davey’s a detective/investigative journalist, Jack’s an artist by day and a performer by night, and Spot and Race are rival gang leaders at each other’s throats.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>The man sits at his desk, brows pulled together with the stress of a job he’s only been at for two years now. His boss across from him, and a sea of photographs and nondescript notes on the desk between them. A fresh cup of coffee lingers beside him, traveling frequently to his lips as he wracks his brain for an answer; </span>
  </em>
  <span>something </span>
  <em>
    <span>that can connect the notes and pictures before him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     His palm meets the table in a flurry. He’s standing, looking down at the man at the other side of the desk. It’s a stalemate, and they both know it. Not only that, but they know damn well this story isn’t getting written so long as they just</span>
  </em>
  <span> sit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>David massages his temples, sitting back in his chair with a huff. They don’t make sense. </span>
  </em>
  <span>None </span>
  <em>
    <span>of it makes any sense, and neither are they. Not without a headline.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Something new. A filler story. That’s what they needed. Time to piece this bloody puzzle together. He hardly felt he was a detective anymore, not when the only mysteries they were solving were those of missing cats and flat tires on the new Fords. His boss collects the photos, putting them back together neatly and leaving them in front of David with a promise that they can work on it later. Right now, they need something to fill the page space they paid for. The old man with the new roadster would do just fine. The photographs of various crime scenes glare at him from his desk. He sips his coffee.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>•••</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wasn’t sure when, but the sunlight has stepped quietly through his windows and past his curtains, brightening the room in which he sits. Canvases and brushes surround him, a maze he needs to clean up. The light is a welcome guest, surely, but brings too much attention to the mess in the room. Jack wrinkles his nose, raising a hand to ward it from his eyes. He needs new curtains, that’s for sure and certain.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     The painting is one of his best yet; a countryscape during a sunset. Red clay stares at him, dotted with greenery here and there before giving way to sprawling fields. A variety of flora litter the scene, the sky above a liquid amber, turning into an inky violet midnight. If he wasn’t selling it, he would keep it for himself. But, it is for his doll’s good friend. He can’t just take it back </span>
  </em>
  <span>now</span>
  <em>
    <span>. He tucks the brush behind his ear, wiping his hands off on the towel in his lap, and searches for his smallest brush to sign it. Weeks of work, all come to this. It’s more than worth it, in his mind. The woman is going to love it, that’s all he can think.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     He clears himself a path, heading into the quaint bathroom to wash up from the night prior. He smiles at himself in the mirror, wiping it down quickly and stepping into his bedroom to dress. He looks the part of an artist, that’s for sure. There’s hardly an article of clothing that </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>speckled with oils or charcoal. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Once decent, he leans out his window. He has errands to run, and he may as well get started on them while the painting dries. He slips on his shoes and steps out into the world.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>•••</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Brooklyn’s docks ring out loud and proud, a wakeup call not only for the workers but the sun as well. It crawls up the sky, sluggish but bright as ever. Its warmth doesn’t quite touch folks’ skin, though, the breeze sweeping over the river turning any exposed skin to goose flesh. Nothing they aren’t used to, though.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     Watching it all from his throne of debris sits a man who could pass as a schoolboy in stature. Eyes of a lynx and a grin to match, his hair an inky gold in the sunrise, Spot Conlon sits unperturbed as he watches his boys sling rope and haul bags to and fro. What he lacks in height, he makes up for in personality. There isn’t a person in any borough who </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know not to mess with the man, and if they did… God help them. He lets out a sigh, pulling a sleek cane from his belt loop and twirling it in his hand. He perks up some, a thought popping into his head. Breakfast isn’t a half bad idea.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     He hops down from his pedestal, returning his cane to its rightful place and striding down the streets. There’s a bakery nearby with the only coffee he likes, and is willing to spend his good money on. He steps inside, the man at the counter tipping his head in a nod. The cup is in his hands before he can even sit down, Spot nodding courteously and setting the money on the table as he lets himself savor the drink. It’s the quiet mornings that are among his favorites. All the more reason to relish in them when he can. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>•••</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sharing a small place with three other guys is hardly ever an ideal situation. They make it work, no doubt, but mornings never get easier. Wake up calls that usually involve shouting in someone’s ear, complaints of stolen change or socks. It’s all in good faith, of course. At least, that’s what they tell one another. It’s hard not to believe them either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     One thing they can almost all agree on is how </span>
  </em>
  <span>someone</span>
  <em>
    <span> just can’t go without his “beauty sleep”. The blond in question rolls his eyes, glaring sharply at those sitting with him. The lazy grin that forms gives him away too easily, though. Race can give one hell of a poker face when he wants to. He’s in good company; there’s no need. He drapes his legs across Albert’s lap, claiming the leverage helps him while he works on polishing their silverware. It can never be too clean, not while they’re all living together anyhow. He’d kill for a cup of coffee, has said it plenty of times before. It was just easier to go through what they had before buying anything new. Besides, unmarked bottles of alcohol were a good enough way to wake up. He pours them each some in their respective cups, grimacing as he takes a sip. He doesn’t bother lying to them; they’ve already seen his opinion on the drink. They down their cups anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    He checks his reflection in the blade of a chipped butter knife, fixing some of the curls that have fallen out of place (not that they had much of a place to begin with) and tossing it onto the table beside them. They have business to do. Cleaning up was a futile effort.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>——</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Six. Six cups of coffee have sloshed in the cup the detective has set on his desk. The photographs near become coasters after every sip, David frantically pushing them aside and hoping one of them has an answer. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Anything</span>
  <em>
    <span>. A blur in the background, a signature that has gone unnoticed time and time again. He doesn’t understand. They’ve gone through dozens of cases before, hundreds in the time that he wasn’t there. Why was this one such a damn tease? Where did these bastards get off?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     He sinks in his chair, his shoulders pressed to his ears as his fingers card through the wild nest of curls. It’s late. The sun is dipping low in the sky, mocking him with every minute that goes by. Soon enough, they would strike again, hidden in the cloak of moonlight. It wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>fair!</span>
  <em>
    <span> He could only write so many flowery articles about stolen Ford models and the neighborhood cat burglars. Everyone knew things were amiss; it was hard to not notice a vandalized vendor's cart, or a clean-up job done too hastily. They had just become too run of the mill. Of course no one was paying mind to them. How could they when there was no local paper reporting on it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     He pushes aside some notes as his head falls to the desk, a long sigh bleeding from his lungs. He blinks. Once… twice… Denton appears beside him, tapping on his shoulder. The lights have since been turned off, the room dark save for his own light and that from the sun as it waves a snarky goodbye. David glares, sitting himself up and grabbing his glasses from his pocket. He’s finding a connection, whether it kills him or not. Denton leaves with a wave.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>•••</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Paintbrushes are a miracle tool, in Jack’s opinion. They can create never before seen places, the dredges of human imagination. Or, they can make the drab look as though it were the pinnacle of beauty. It just took a careful hand and an eye for color. He leans against the sink in the nearest bathroom, his smallest brushes lined up on the counter as he pokes and prods at his outfit. He needs to get it tailored, because his own sad attempts at altering it to his liking were just that. Pitiful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     The outfit never matters, anyway. He’s got personality for miles, or so he’s been told. A smile that can make the skies blue again, eyes that can make anyone do what he wants. He is good at his jobs; painting, and performing. One of the best. He tells himself that every night. He grabs the compact from a nearby shelf, the rouge the color of a rose. It’s perfect, at least that’s what the woman who lent it to him said. He applies it to his cheeks liberally, using the pads of his fingers to smooth it out. The room can be dark; a little color was never enough. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     A thin brush finds its way to Jack’s hand, and soon onto a tube of lipstick. Arguably the hardest part, in his opinion. The dark plum-red is his favorite, even if he hates how it feels. The color is rich, and the artist in him loves it. He outlines his lips gingerly, filling them in to his liking, and admiring himself once more in the mirror. He was good company. Everyone always told him so.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>•••</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eighty... ninety… a hundred. The bills slide through his fingers with practiced ease. It’s routine at this point. Meet the mark, take a shot, collect the earnings. It’s easy money, in his opinion. The only thing that bites is the process. Not everything pans out as planned. He files the money into an envelope, then looks at his arm with a grimace. Some marks come more prepared than others, and </span>
  </em>
  <span>some </span>
  <em>
    <span>happen to be half decent marksmen as well.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     The wound isn’t the worst he’s had, nor is it that much of a hindrance. No, it’s more annoying than anything. He wrinkles his nose, assessing the damage. Can’t keep the bullet as a souvenir since it passed clean in and out. ‘Least it wasn’t anywhere vital, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that</span>
  <em>
    <span> would pose some issues. He snatches up a bottle bought from a nearby underground joint, gritting his teeth and pouring some of the contents onto the wound. A string of curses hisses through his teeth, ebbing and dwindling as he wraps the wound with a thick bandage square and a strip of gauze. So much for keeping that new shirt… how could any respectful man enjoy his hard earned money if he just has to keep throwing it towards new work clothes? He doesn’t have an answer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     Spot cards his fingers through his hair, hardly taking a second glance before downing some of the bitter drink. Compared to half the things he’s tried, he’d hardly consider it ‘drink’. It was just… well, it sure was </span>
  </em>
  <span>something. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that ‘something’ was not good. Take what you can get, he figures, ignoring the burn in the back of his throat as he moves to toss his shirt away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>•••</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>say</span>
  <em>
    <span> he was a bit of a narcissist. What man doesn’t want to look good? The cigar between his teeth crackles with each inhale, smoke slipping through his parted lips as he looks over himself in the mirror.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     This jacket definitely is the best of the few he’s tried; clean, sharp, faint pinstripes making his already lanky arms look even longer. The buttons don’t pucker the fabric and it doesn’t bunch where it shouldn’t. Frankly, it’s perfect. Then again, he said the last jacket was perfect, too. He glances over at the discarded fabric, hardly recognizable as any article of clothing. No, now it just looked like some war-torn tarp; scrapped and tattered and splattered with a far too familiar rust. The sight doesn’t bother him anymore. Better the suit torn to shreds than himself (even if the encounter earned him more than enough future scars). </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     The blond squints, cocks his head to the side pensively. Was it worth it? He’s already tried on two others. They weren’t nearly as nice, but that meant he wouldn’t feel as bad when they were ruined…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>     Race stashes the other two suit jackets away, his Cheshire grin catching in his reflection. Can’t keep up a name like ‘Pretty Boy’ if you don’t dress to show it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jacobs, D. — 1922</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A year on the job. A small fraction, sure, but it feels like a lifetime. Even more so when a new issue rears it’s head and lands itself on David’s desk.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Description of crime scenes, namely homicides. If that bothers you... I don’t think you should be reading this fic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s right there. Literally, it’s directly in front of their eyes in so many words and blurry photographs (which are hardly worth a thousand words) and yet, they only have one thing to connect a handful of them; the mark.</p>
<p>     It’s hand done, most definitely with a blade. A meticulously carved set of initials in whatever surface is most convenient for the ghost of a suspect — be it the corpse found at the scene, or the building that had been ransacked. David is positive the initials don’t actually coincide with the perp’s real name. They can’t be that stupid, no. Besides, there were hundreds, if not <em> thousands </em> of ‘P.B.’s that it could be. He wasn’t about to canvass the whole of New York for something that was, most likely, an alias.</p>
<p>     The initials have shown up on four separate cases. David doesn’t know what part of it is worse; the fact that the person had the time to tag their attacks, or that in some cases the clotting and general mess surrounding such tags meant that the victim had been <em> alive </em> to endure it. They saw their killer. That small detail has his blood boiling, his knuckles veering on white as a hand comes to his shoulder and a mug into his line of sight.</p>
<p>     “This is ridiculous,” he sighs, running his hand down his face before taking a sip of the drink. “And I think you got grounds in this…” The fact doesn’t stop him from taking another sip. The man at his side waves him off, taking his own stab at making sense of the evidence they have.</p>
<p>     “Don’t blame me,” he retorts. “That machine’s busted. Lousy anyhow.” His eyes linger over the photos as he turns with a shrug.</p>
<p>     “They’ve got initials, so whoever’s doing it <em> wants </em> to be known for something.”</p>
<p>     “Yeah, I gathered that much.” David pauses, sighing softly. “Sorry, Bryan. It’s just ridiculous. When it was one or two cases it wasn’t such a big deal. Now it’s… how many?”</p>
<p>     “Upwards of eight.” He nods at Dave’s bewildered expression, retrieving an envelope from his suitcase and tossing four more photographs into the mix (much to both their dismays). “Those are just the ones that’re marked. For all we know, they went and carved up hundreds of others before they started getting cocky.” His boss rearranges the scattered photographs, compiling them into piles based on whether or not they have the initials. David leans against the desk and looks through the unmarked photographs. He can’t even say whether the M.O.s are consistent with that of the others — frankly, if they hadn’t had the initials, it would just look like a run of the mill case of foul play. He doesn’t know whether that makes matters better or worse.</p>
<p>     “Do we know of anyone getting away from this? Eye witnesses, anything?” He asks, exasperated. Bryan shakes his head.</p>
<p>     “If anyone <em> has,</em> they haven’t come forward. To address the elephant in the room, this could be organized.” Dave passes him a look and sips his coffee. </p>
<p>     “Don’t give me that. I wasn’t done talking. Organized crime or not, there’s no rhyme or reason to who they are attacking. We’ve got… what? Two grocers, a department store, a cigar shop…” He rifles through the photos again, shrugging. “An apartment complex, two laundromats, and a vendor’s cart. With <em> that</em>, we can assume they want… what?” David furrows his brow, sputtering as Denton turns to look at him.</p>
<p>     “Revenge, for bad customer service?” Denton laughs, and if there’s any amount of humor to it, it falls on deaf ears.</p>
<p>     “Exactly. We haven’t a clue beyond reasonable doubt. These hits are sporadic. Usually, even in our most prolific cases, there’s a semblance of a pattern. All well known people as the victims, or they only attack on Sundays. The best we’ve got going for us are the initials and that the attacks happen at night.”</p>
<p>     “And we can’t trace the initials without interrogating <em> every </em>person with them. And, of course, they could be an alibi.”</p>
<p>     “Bingo.” David sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he first came to work for the paper. He was supposed to be writing all sorts of scholarly articles — pieces about the state government, politics, remarks from the president and the like. Of course, when offered a spot as an investigative journalist, he couldn’t hide his curiosity. Well paying as it is, it turned out to be the most tedious job he’s ever taken. It was small at first; reporting stolen cars and missing cats and the odd robbery here and there. In the past year, crime has increased at a staggering rate, and while that means more stories to cover, it also means more labor that goes into it.</p>
<p>     It was exciting initially. He’d go out into the field, gather evidence amongst the officers. ‘Investigative journalist’ turned into ‘honorary detective’ alongside Denton, and to be able to announce that title to his family was an unparalleled excitement. Now he sits at his desk and thinks. Scours over pages and pages of notes from scenes, photographs piled onto his desk, marked beyond recognition with notes themselves.</p>
<p>     All the while, ‘P.B.’ remains at large, just out of reach.</p>
<p>     “When did these attacks begin again?” He asks, thinking aloud more than anything.</p>
<p>     “Let’s see. The earliest initial picture we’ve got is dated… March of this year. And as for <em> without </em>the initials… September of last. I’m including those for the sake of a story, and a few victims seem to have otherwise similar injuries. Two clean shots to the chest, an occasional stabbing, those wounds in the lower abdomen. Whoever did it was real close to them.”</p>
<p>     “Which means they also saw their attacker, just like some of the branded victims. Lovely. Cut down in cold blood. Or for no reason. Equally awful…” </p>
<p>     “How old’re you again?” Denton asks out of the blue, David’s brow knit together as he looks at him.</p>
<p>     “Twenty-two?”</p>
<p>     “And with all the worry lines of someone twice your age,” he teases, laughing barely. David doesn’t return the sentiment. Bryan crosses his arms and nods towards the door.</p>
<p>     “It’s gettin’ late, Jacobs. Why don’t you head home for the day? You’re not gonna get anything new today. Relax, come back tomorrow with a new set of eyes. And, hopefully, not another set of pictures. I’m gonna work on some headlines with what we’ve got. Take a crack at this mess on my own.” He sees an objection forming on David’s lips, shaking his head. “It’s not a request. Head out for today.” The man steels himself, finishing the bitter contents of the mug as he leaves.</p>
<p>     He doesn’t leave, however, without tucking his notepad into the pocket of his jacket. With a pencil behind his ear he walks into the streets. A detective's work is never done. Stony eyes sweep the street for anything unusual. A man bumming a cigarette on the corner, women in groups walking down the sidewalks. Every vendor he spots is either busy as can be with the lunch wave, or half asleep at their stand — he takes a moment to survey the faces nearby them, too. Just in case. Nothing. Onto the next, then.</p>
<p>     He turns down an alley beside the grocery store that had been hit a few weeks prior. The scene has been cleaned up, of course. You can’t just leave…<em> that</em>, in the open. Not for the public, and not in the lazy heat of late August. There’s no trace of the body, weapons, or any possible culprits. Not even when he crouches down; there’s not a single bloody print, and considering the lack of rain they’ve had, he considers that a miracle on the assailants end. The scene had been a <em> mess, </em>not so bad as some of them, but from an objective standpoint, a crime scene was a crime scene. To get away from it without trailing blood? That was a feat. He chews the end of the pencil, scribbling down a few notes before continuing on his way.</p>
<p>     “David, you’ve outdone yourself. Bitten off more than you can chew this time,” he mutters under his breath, stopping by a handful of the other scenes. They aren’t even all remotely close to one another. Sure, they’re centralized in Manhattan. But that’s about as close as they come. All are within walking distance of one another, but it wasn’t like they were committed within the same night. No, the timing was just as scattered as the placement. Whoever it was, they were good. Skilled, even though he hates to admit, in both committing their crimes and getting away with them.</p>
<p>     <em> For now, </em>he reminds himself. They’re going to solve this, even if it kills him.</p>
<p>     He crosses towards a deli nearby. Jacobi’s was always a good spot to mull over his thoughts, even if the man supplied him with more than enough food for thought with his random quips. He was good company, and an even better chef. He wanders inside, sitting in his usual window booth, and meeting the older man’s eyes.</p>
<p>     “Th’regular?” He asks, Dave tipping his head in a nod with a smile. Had he eaten breakfast that morning? The longer he thought about it, the less sure he was. He scrutinizes his notepad instead of the menu. All his original notes from cases; from street addresses to scribbled out possible connections. It feels like looking through a family album, a weird wave of nostalgia settling over him. The notes aren’t even that old, which makes the feeling even more jarring.</p>
<p>     “Here you are,” pulls him from his head, a plate being set in front of him alongside a (much more appealing) cup of coffee and his bill.</p>
<p>     “Thank you, Jacobi,” he replies warmly, sliding his notepad to the empty spot on the seat beside him. The man hardly seems to notice, or care for that matter. Instead he prattles on about some raucous customers from the night prior, earning him a sympathetic look. The man makes good money as far as he knows, but with booming business always comes the one or two oddballs that can ruin anyone’s mood.</p>
<p>     He picks at his sandwich; corned beef on rye, toasted, with a pickle on the side. It’s been his order nearly every time he’s visited, and he doesn’t intend to stop anytime soon. Jacobi talks until the door swings open once again, leaving David alone with his thoughts and his half eaten meal. He should bag it. Save himself the trouble of making something for dinner. Once Jacobi seats the other guests, he asks for the doggy bag, putting the rest of his sandwich inside and paying (making sure to leave a nice tip). He pockets his notebook for safe keeping; no use working the cases today, not anymore, and leaves, taking a defeated bite of his pickle.</p>
<p>     The rest of his walk brings him a clearer set of thoughts, thankfully. No use worrying over work when you aren’t there. He sighs heavily, continuing his trek, and not catching the disgruntled grumbling of the man that hurries past him, papers and canvas jostling with every step.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m bad at chapter summaries, thank you for coming. Also this fic is going to be a slow burn, I can’t remember if I mentioned that. That said, I’m trying to crank out more of these chapters ahead of time so that the only super slow burn is the plot itself, not my upload schedule. It’ll be more consistent soon, don’t worry. Thank you for reading!!! Comments are much appreciated!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Kelly, J. — 1922</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For an artist, getting your work in a gallery is a sure fire way to steady money. Time and time again, Jack’s tried with far and few successes. If it keeps up, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep a roof over his head much longer. Not without another job.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>If he keeps bouncing his leg, it’s going to fall off. It’s been half an hour — what’s taking so damn long, he hasn’t the slightest idea. He’s tried time and time again to get his name on the walls of the various galleries across the city. One or two have taken some of his works off his hands, shoved them in the darker corners to let the lights shine on a Glackens or Munch. He understands, of course; why showcase a no name when you could take in more </span>
  <em>
    <span>known </span>
  </em>
  <span>pieces and people?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     He opens the portfolio in his hand, loosening the strings that are keeping it together and peering at his work once more for good measure (despite the fact he’s already done it once earlier). These are hardly his favorite pieces; they’re more or less there to bolster his quantity. Pencil sketches and the like, separated carefully between layers of parchment paper to keep the graphite and charcoal from transferring or worse, smudging. It’s the paintings at his side, tucked away in a larger holder, that he prides himself on. Smaller paintings or the final sketches for his large scale works, his cream of the crop. Even just looking at the holder has his chest swelling with pride. This was it, his big break. He was going to be the </span>
  <em>
    <span>new </span>
  </em>
  <span>name in art, the one and only—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Jack Kelly?” Says a toneless male voice. Jack swivels in the chair, nodding curtly. He closes the folder in his lap, quickly twisting the strings around it to ensure nothing falls out. The man clears his throat from across the room, the sound echoing across the hall and ringing in the younger’s ears. Quiet swears pass from his own lips as he swings the strap of his carrier over his shoulder and finally stands. With a brief apology and a placating smile, he heads down the corridor the man stands in. Their conversation is minimal; idle chatter about the weather and the new makes and models of the roadsters. It’s stiff, but nothing Jack can’t plow through. Anything to make a half decent impression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     The office is oddly quaint for the director of a museum (Marvin, he comes to learn, Marvin Ivanall). A few portraits here, some trinkets and baubles there, but nothing seems disorderly. He keeps himself from wrinkling his nose. It’s not his cup of tea, for sure. Too dark and too… bland.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “So, Mr. Kelly, you are looking to get your artwork in our gallery,” the man states, Jack nodding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “That’s th’dream, sir. I think I’ve grown since th’last time I tried gettin’ my works somewhere—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Everyone does.” The words die on his tongue, his jaw snapping shut with an audible ‘click’ as he displays his work on the desk (trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to knock over a pen holder in the process). Marvin peruses each piece, squinting behind his bifocals like the drawings said something to sour his mood. Jack watches from over his shoulder with his thumbnail gripped between his teeth. Marvin grunts noncommittally at the sketch of Kloppmann, Jack’s landlord, and exhales sharply at those of various solemn looking folks in their equally depressing apartment shaped hell. His eyes loiter on a sketch of a park that Jack did earlier that summer, the plain grayscale hardly doing the fauna and flora justice. He hadn’t had his paints on him to capture the flourishing trees or the blossoms that had just sprouted, or the wheat blond hair of a woman carrying her baby. Honestly, it would’ve been a beautiful piece, too. He could just </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> and recapture it, but he’s certain it wouldn’t hold a candle to its true beauty. After a few moments the sketch is pushed aside with the others, calloused fingers continuing to flip through the pieces until he completes the whole folder, gesturing towards the desk. Jack lays out the bigger works, carefully moving the originals out of harm's way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So, what are you lookin’ to get out of this? Hm? These… look more promising, at least for what I’m looking for.” Well, that’s a start no doubt. He smiles lightly, pointing to one of his scenic paintings. A rooftop view of the city from his apartment, just past dawn. The streets are vacant and the lights aren’t blocking the rising sun. It’s one of the few times he likes the city — when nothing’s happening, while it’s still asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “I would say my strong suit is landscapes. I saw ya really lookin’ at that park scene, too. It’s nice, there’s a lot t’work with, nothin’ changes too much. You don’t have t’worry about someone movin’ or sneezin’ and whatnot.” One of the reasons he doesn’t like doing portraits for work. There’s too big a margin of error, and it’s near </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible</span>
  </em>
  <span> to really capture the moment in a two week long painting. No, moments are fleeting, long enough for you to grab a pencil and paper and scribble it down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> it turns out how you see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “But, I want what lotsa folks want. Lotsa people come through here, any artist who even gets </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>person interested in their work is gonna get talked about. Whispers gain traction, traction means a more steady job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “And, on the job front, how’re you doing now?” Marvin turns away from the paintings, Jack trying to hide his dismay as he tosses his head thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Commissions here an’ there. Us’lly bigger pieces, scenery of course. Th’most consistent work comes from Miss Medda Larkin, she asks me t’do backgrounds and props for her theater. I do ‘em, she pays me. That’s where most folks hear ‘bout me, askin’ her who did the backdrops or maybe they catch me doin’ ‘em. It pays enough, keeps me in my apartment with food an’ supplies, so. ‘Course, some months are hard, but at ‘least I ain’t on the streets.” He wasn’t going to mention that that’s how he and Medda came to meet again in his teen years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     He’d snuck into the catwalk of the building one night, wanting to sleep somewhere other than the concrete. With a storm brewing, it wasn’t a half bad idea. Until the woman heard his shuffling about, and came at him brandishing a baseball bat and screaming bloody murder. It’s a fond memory, nonetheless, one that earned him money to get him his own apartment and a lifelong mother figure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     Marvin nods slowly; whether he knows Medda’s name or not, Jack can’t tell. He’s honestly not even sure Marvin can show emotion. He figures he’s just had a bad morning or something, trying not to let it bother him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “And, these,” he starts, pulling out a collection of faceless paintings with a quirked brow. “Are… what, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “More portraits. Just… no faces.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Why?” He asks, and his tone makes it seem like he found out Jack has been betraying him for years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “It’s easier. Well no, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>easier</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he backtracks quickly the second Marvin gives him a look. “Y’can’t really get how someone is feelin’ or their personality in a bunch of different sessions. They could be feelin’ over th’moon one day, an’ a high-hat the next. It messes with th’whole thing. That’s why I sketch folks, it’s quick, less lines, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> more personality.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “I see… well, I admire the incentive, and some of these pieces truly are stellar. I am a fan of your park piece, along with the cityscape. I have to say to you, one artist to another, you ought to branch out more. Paint more portraits, maybe a pretty woman. Who doesn’t like lookin’ at a doll?” He laughs for the first time, and Jack cracks a smile of his own. Guess they’re making progress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “I’ll keep that in mind,” he confirms and raises an eyebrow ever so slightly. Come on… it’s just a handful of words. That’s all he needs to hear. Maybe some camaraderie will help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “You’re an artist, y’said? These your paintings?” He asks with a glance around the office. Marvin puffs up at the question. Bingo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “That’s right. Dabbled some in my younger years, ‘fore I got this place settled and started getting other works in. Pays better than—“ He stops short as he looks up at Jack, as if remembering who he’s talking to. Jack hums, taking a lap around the room and admiring the paintings. It’s more for show than anything; the paints don’t go well together, and they’re peeling off the canvas. With a bit of restoration, they could certainly be decent. But, just that. Decent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “These’re nice, Mr. Ivanall. Real nice. I like the paints y’chose, the colors work real well together. Might have t’take a few pointers.” Marvin laughs again, shaking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “You’re somethin’ kid, that’s for sure. I think if you keep up the good work, branch out a bit more, you could get every one of your pieces in galleries all over.” Jack’s eyes light up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Well, thank you, honest, I’m real glad you—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Right now, though, y’gotta get to that point.” And there it is. His shoulders slump just a little, and suddenly Marvin’s words pass through his ears like cotton. He hears it faintly in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “The pieces… they’re missing something. Not all of them, of course. I’m more than willing to take the park sketch and the city piece off your hands. They’re attractive no doubt, and they have what the others don’t. ‘Course, if you can fix those up, show me </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>, maybe we can talk about getting you more space. For now, it’s these two.” It isn’t the worst thing that could happen, not by any means. It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>start.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s two more pieces with his name on a tiny placard beneath them on the walls for anyone to see. He smiles at Marvin, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     The next twenty minutes are spent filling out a variety of paperwork — signing over the artwork, titling them, every little thing making Jack’s head spin. He reads everything over once, twice. It’s all very similar to the other museums, nothing he hasn’t done before. He packs up the rest of his artwork, taking his time now as him and Marvin finish their conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Thank you, Mr. Ivanall. It’s been a pleasure. This’ll help with rent, fo’sure,” he says as he holds up the envelope given to him, bills filed away neatly inside. The man puts away the papers, holding out his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Take care, Mr. Kelly. I’ll write to you when we hang these up. Keep your eye out, yeah?” They shake hands, Jack just barely hiding a grimace (Marvin has clammy hands). Hiking his holder back onto his shoulder, folder and envelope in hand, he exits the gallery, grumbling under his breath the second he steps out the front doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “‘Oh they’re missin’ somethin’, Mr. Kelly. We think you could do better, Mr. Kelly’... buncha bullshit.” He shakes his head, fumbling through the pocket of his slacks for a cigarette. He lets out a heavy sigh when it turns up empty, picking up the pace as he moves through the streets. Of all the remarks that could be made about his art, ‘they’re missing something’ is his least favorite. They took </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, resources he couldn’t stand to waste. He didn’t paint things just for the hell of it, there was always a reason behind them. A moment of despair stuck out on the rooftop, a longing for something greater. Or the sketches of people in their windows, for example; lonely in a city that never sleeps. It’s something he can connect with and scratch it down onto a piece of paper. They have </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>     He can do more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     He can paint the stupid portraits of random women (who wouldn’t want to be asked to model?) and he can paint the stupid park again. He knows it won’t be the same, it never is. He’ll travel, paint other places and people and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span>… what? It isn’t like he wants the notoriety, just a steady cash flow. The anger starts to sizzle out, sputtering and grasping at any straws it can as he continues to walk towards Duane Street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     It’s replaced by something he can’t quite place. Something that leads to bags under his eyes and sulking as he meanders around the house desperate for inspiration. He’s felt it before; in fact, he isn’t sure it ever goes away. It just lingers in the background, some days hardly noticeable, other days a storm cloud. Friends of his have noticed it, too. Say it rolls off him in waves. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> sees it on the regular on the folks in their apartment windows. It makes him feel less alone, that’s for sure. He needs a roommate, or a half consistent stream of company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     Jack reaches his building before he realizes it, hurrying up the steps into the apartment with a sigh. He doesn’t acknowledge the unlocked door, passing through the threshold and settling his work in his office the second he gets the chance. He kicks off his shoes and tosses his coat, moving back into the living area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     It’s then that he picks up on the noise. The rhythmic rapping of a cane against the hardwood floor. He wouldn’t say it’s common, but he knows the sound. He huffs, turning towards the noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “So much for gettin’ more work done…”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Again — sorry for takin’ so long to upload new chapters; the next one gave me a lot of grief, and the one after that isn’t finished yet. I’ve also been dealing with work stuff and now I have a job, school starting soon, and much more. But!!! Please comment, I hope you enjoy. Comments get me to write faster.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Conlon, S. -- 1922</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It could be considered glamorous, but in all honesty, dirty work is just that. And the mornings after usually aren’t any better. Not for Spot, at least.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He isn’t sure what time it is. He also doesn’t know what time he got back home the night prior, which doesn’t settle well with him. It’s well past sunrise, for sure, the docks crawling with fishmongers and newsboys and yard hands helping dock the boats as they come in. The wind whistles across the grounds, the salted breeze tousling his hair and dragging the smoke from his newly lit cigarette faster than he can take a hit. He manages despite it, eyes narrowed against the early afternoon sunlight.</p><p>     He has a day off. Granted, a ‘day off’ in this line of work more or less means planning your next move; searching out new grounds, seeing if any targets have done anything out of the ordinary that could leave one to believe they’ve caught onto their status (they never do). If he can spare it, and all above has already been done, a ‘day off’ could also mean exactly that. Spot’s not familiar with the sentiment, all things considered. He prefers to keep busy – spend too long dragging your feet, and you’ll wind up with a pair of shackles around your ankles before you know it. Planning, though. It can’t <em> always </em> be traced. Every plan, good or bad, starts in the head.</p><p>     <em> ‘The vendor three streets over… he paid off Alan. Stupid ass paid less than what </em> I <em> pay the kid. Bullshit… I can make that money back, ‘course. Hotshot’ll help, he’s been looking for some type of raise,’ </em>he thinks, his eyes trained on the slowly lapping waves. Hotshot’s worked with him for years now, and frankly he deserved a raise more than Alan had. That cheapass good for nothing—</p><p>     “Shit…” The dull orange of his cigarette crawls back slowly, just barely burning the tips of his fingers. He tosses the butt away, quickly retrieving a replacement from his pocket and sticking it between his teeth. It’s then that he gets a proper glimpse of himself.</p><p>     Any working man knows the feeling; coming home late, dead on your feet, the room tilting with every step. There’s hardly any other choice than to sleep in your work clothes. This wouldn’t be a problem if his profession wasn’t so… well. Messy. Even after years of work, crawling his way to the top ranks of the Brooklyn Boys, he hardly ever has an entirely clean job. He could sit there and scrub the scene until his knuckles tore and there were holes in the knees of his slacks, but sure enough, the next day there’d be a stain on his sleeve.</p><p>     Only in this case, it’s hard to tell him from the corpse. Blood stains the once white dress shirt deep enough to make it unsalvageable. No one can see him where he sits (or, at the least, no one dares to acknowledge him) and it’s all for the better. He’s not afraid of being seen necessarily. Sure, it’d be a bitch to have to explain, but around these parts people don’t ask ‘why’ or ‘how’. Not if they know what’s good for them, at least. It does no one any good sticking their noses where they don’t belong — Hell, that’s how most people end up on a list; a ‘Don’t-Tell-Them-Any-Damn-Secrets’ list, or a ‘Stick-A-Knife-Between-Their-Ribs’ one. Albeit, it isn’t like people can’t find themselves on <em> both. </em> It’s not that hard to manage, either.</p><p>     Regardless, sitting around in blood-stained clothes in broad daylight is not a brilliant idea by any means. His eyes land on a few familiar faces as he sweeps them over the docks. Dice, who’s about the best gambler he’s ever met, hauling rope alongside Barry. He tosses them a quick nod, hopping down from his makeshift fortress and tossing the cigarette beneath his shoe.</p><p>     “Conlon!” Dice half shouts, jogging over to the man. Spot squints against the sun, eyebrow quirked in question. </p><p>     “When’s uh… when’re gonna get our pay for last night?”</p><p>     “You know the drill. Don’t talk about work when we ain’t on th’job, and <em> don’t </em>ask about the money. When have I ever fucked up a payment, huh?” Dice crosses his arms, only to drop them when Spot mirrors him.</p><p>     “Right… but just so y’know, I promised my girl a nice night out next Tuesday. The money could help.” Spot makes a derisive noise, nodding ever so slightly as he wraps a hand around the head of his cane.</p><p>     “‘Course, yeah. And just so <em> you </em> know, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about your girl.” He pats the man's shoulder, waving him off as he turns and walks the other way. “Keep up th’good work! Y’might get a bonus next time!” He hears an expletive sent his way, but it’s all in good nature. He takes care of his boys, it’s the best way to keep loyalty in his opinion. Makes it a lot easier to weed out the rats if it comes to it, anyway.</p><p>     Spot moves quickly, filtering in and out of the small crowds like water. First things first, he needs a change of attire. Can’t go on with the day in rags like these. After last night, he’ll need as much cover as possible. The job was one of the riskier ones (compared to the others), and the sooner he’s out of Brooklyn, the better. He’s got it all planned out in his head; more accurately, he’s got a few ideas scribbled here and there, connected by twisting and uncertain lines. Clothes, out of Brooklyn, maybe some breakfast. The ‘how’ is hardly even in question. He can figure it out as he goes; it isn’t a meticulous escape rendezvous. His small abode comes into view sooner than he realizes, the hub of all his plotting in serious need of a sprucing up. He toes off his shoes and grabs discarded towels as he walks through, tossing them into an askew hamper alongside his shirt (even though the garbage can would be better suited). His slacks aren’t in too bad shape, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and they too get thrown into the hamper to be dealt with later.</p><p>     He catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, head cocked to the side.</p><p>     “Great.” He wets his hands beneath the faucet and rakes them through his hair, redoing the part and debating whether it was even salvageable. Alright, maybe a proper wash up was the better option.</p><p>     Spot travels through rooms picking out things as he goes; a crisp looking shirt, pinstripe slacks, and everything else he could possibly need, before retiring to the bathroom once again. The water is cold, but with the heat outside it’s almost bearable. He scrubs off a layer of grime from the night’s work, and makes sure his hair is adequately washed before getting up and toweling off. Despite the chill, he feels leagues better. It’s a new day, time to treat it like one. Socks, shirt, pants, suspenders. It’s all the same routine. He combs through his hair and searches for another cigarette as he steps back into his shoes, finding his cane discarded beside them. He needs to be more careful with that, it was expensive.</p><p>     “Where the hell…” Spot murmurs, eyes narrowing in a quick survey of the room. Something metallic glints in the sunlight peeking through the cracks in the blinds, and he snatches it up with a triumphant noise. He checks the contents, more than pleased to find a few cigarettes tucked neatly away. Perfect. Stowing it in his slacks and pulling on his jacket (with an inconspicuous weight in the innermost pocket), he steps back into the bright light of midday, moving on with the near arduous trek across the Brooklyn Bridge.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>The route itself is ingrained in his memory. He’s driven across the bridge maybe twice, and never in the same car. The risk is a fun part of the job, but sometimes it has to be taken seriously. There’s only so much you can do if you’re trapped in your car, and that’s if you’re lucky.</p><p>     Besides, the walk <em> really </em> isn’t all that bad. Not when you’ve done it a hundred times at least. He keeps a cigarette firmly clamped between his teeth, opting to wait until he gets to Manhattan to light it. Just so he can relax a little. Cars pass by him with hardly a second glance; he’s a shadow in the daylight, an unknown threat if looked at the wrong way. Otherwise, he’s just a passerby, especially as he gets into Manhattan. Neither him nor his boys bother with work there — you get too bold, you get caught. Maybe when he’s got a few more folks, but honestly, he doesn’t even have the desire for it. He takes pride in being a formidable force in his <em> own </em> borough; he doesn’t need to terrorize another. Especially not when he’s got company there.</p><p>     The scents of baked goods and hot lunches fill the air around him as he walks through the streets. If he didn’t have places to be, he’d stop and get himself something. The risk would be one of the fun ones. There’s food in the apartment. Probably.</p><p>     A few backroads later, Spot reaches his destination, heading up to the front door and scoffing to himself as he walks in without an issue. The door’s unlocked, a bonus for himself, but a problem if he were anyone else.</p><p>     <em> ‘Idiot…’ </em>he thinks as a smirk crawls onto his face, wandering through the building before letting himself get comfortable in the kitchen, just out of view of the front door. He moves to the icebox, rummaging about. Nothing good, and he can't say he’s surprised. Instead he retrieves a glass from the cabinet, dropping in some ice and perusing the cabinets for a drink. Never too early, not in these times. The liquid itself is fairly nondescript, save for it’s rosy-amber coloring. He takes a test sip, and it’s smoother than he expects, pouring himself a glass contently. Retiring to a chair, he lights his cigarette and waits, eyes silently fixed on where the door would be. In hindsight, he should’ve figured out the timing a bit better. Even though he pretty much had the schedule down pat by now, there was always a little wiggle room for random changes of plan, and the fact that his company never was great with being exactly on time — always early or late.</p><p>     Smoke circles float towards the ceiling, his free hand tapping his cane rhythmically against the wood floorboards. It’s only a matter of time now before he walks out that door and heads on the walk of shame.</p><p>     Or, for a raucous shuffling to sound from the other side, grumbling and tossing things aside as they enter the building. A few careful ‘thunk’s from down the hall, the sound of fabric falling alongside two more ‘thump’s. His cane doesn’t stop, not until a sigh sounds from just beyond the wall.</p><p>     “So much for gettin’ more work done…” Jack states, somewhere between disappointed and relieved. Spot grins nonetheless, offering a cigarette from the tin.</p><p>     “Were you workin’?” He asks as the man passes into the kitchen and takes the cigarette, lighting it on his stove. It’s a moment before he replies, opting to let the smoke linger in his lungs before sighing it out.</p><p>     “I was talkin’ with a fella who works in th’gallery a few blocks down. He took some of my paintin’s, then said the rest are missing somethin’. <em> Missing </em>somethin’, Spot. It’s bullshit…” Jack pulls out the chair closest to the man, head resting on the table in defeat. “‘Natural talent’ they said, ‘gonna be famous’ they said.” Spot can’t help the chuckle that slips out, his hands raising defensively as a glare is shot his way.</p><p>     “I’m not laughin’ at you, promise. Just think it’s funny, artists bein’ like this all the time. He took some of your art, ain’t that somethin’ to be happy about?” A hand finds a place atop Jack’s head, ruffling the neat locks without hesitation. The brunet melts into the touch slowly, keeping his shoulders stiff all the way up to his ears before they slump, grateful for the reassurance. Spot puts out his own cigarette, tugging the artist’s arm in the same movement.</p><p>     “What?” Comes the muffled reply, petulant as ever.</p><p>     “Come <em> here </em>…” He retorts, not letting up until he’s got no other choice. He stands up and moves around behind Jack, resting his chin on his shoulder as he winds his arms around his middle. “You’re too hard on yourself, stupid. Y’just gotta take the punches and roll with ‘em. Keep this up and your work’ll show it.”</p><p>     Jack perks up barely as Spot quiets down. He’s got a point. He always has a point.</p><p>     “Whatever… how's work for <em> you? </em>” He’s not allowed to know the details. The moment he gets them, every other mobster in a hundred mile radius will know his name. Neither of them want to deal with that. But, Jack’s stubborn, and that lent to Spot divulging the man in the surface of his work.</p><p>     “Same old, same old.”</p><p>     “Well that ain’t comfortin’.” Spot presses a kiss to his shoulder, humming to himself.</p><p>     “Was that?” He takes the huff in reply as a ‘yes’, continuing on. “I ain’t dead yet, haven’t got too hurt, and I’m gettin’ paid on time. ‘S good, Jack. I’m good.”</p><p>     “If y’say so.” Jack hates the job, even just the simple robberies. They’re too dangerous, they’re stupid, they’re risky. That’s just part of the fun.</p><p>     “Stop the mopin’, Jack. Doin’ yourself no good.” His lips find his shoulder again, then the base of his neck, up the side to his temples. Jack turns his head to look at him, caught somewhere between contentment and disapproval.</p><p>      “I’m gonna go set up m’office real quick. You stay there, don’t need you gettin’ oils on your slacks. It doesn’t come out.” And with that, he stands up and disappears down the hallway. Spot doesn’t follow; he’s not in the mood for the earful he’d get for not following directions. Instead, he drops back into his seat, mulling over his somewhat watered down drink. For someone who spends a lot of time in his studio, Jack somehow manages to keep the house somewhat organized. His few glasses are clean, save for the ones stacked on the counter (he must’ve recently tidied up, the plates aren’t falling over). In the center of the small table lies a newspaper. It’s recent enough, published sometime this week, maybe even this morning — Jack hasn’t taken it to protect his floors yet, after all.</p><p>     Scribbled along the pages are quick drawings of strangers and half empty glasses, amongst scratched out sketches and doodles and ideas. It’s nothing unusual, until he looks closer. He grits his teeth, nose wrinkling.</p><p>     A murder. Rather the aftermath thereof. They didn’t even bother cleaning up, whoever had done it, leaving some lucky reporter to snap the blurry photo. They made the news, and they didn’t get caught. He scours the photo for any sign of identity. The only bodies in frame are that of the corpse being covered by a sheet, and the various forces called to clean up. Nothing. Except…</p><p>     A set of initials, carved into the building beside the body.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. There’s probably errors<br/>2. Holy crap School is so much more busy than I expected</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m PROBABLY gonna change the title, but I just needed to get the first little bit of this out here. (Also I rated it E just to be on the safe side because I do not know WHAT is going to happen but I know it ISNT PG-13)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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